I never took to jogging, and riding a bicycle around Sydney these days is no fun, what with the foul air and the traffic. Like a lot of other people Ive found that walking is the best exercise. You dont jar things, tend not to step in potholes and dog shit and you can think while youre doing it. I do a few kilometres in Glebe most mornings unless its pissing down rain or I have to be somewhere early, and I try not to let that happen. It was March and cooler than it should have been after a summer that hadnt been up to much. I walked briskly through the park along with joggers, power-walkers, dog-walkers and others just walking.
When I moved to Glebe in the early seventies, you couldnt get down to the water below Jubilee Park. There were rows of old tin and fibro buildings in the waya ships chandler, a timber yard, an auto-electrician. That all got cleared away and the park was extended to the waterline with more trees and a paved walkway running all the way around to the canal. It was a 100 per cent improvement, and the upgrade is still going on to the west towards Johnston Street. More buildings have been cleared and the land detoxified. The plan is to let a section of it revert back to the wetland it once was. Good news for the birds. Normally, I go up the Crescent past the Lew Hoad Reserve to Bridge Road and make my way home that way, but since the work started on the Harold Park Paceway Ive changed my route. Theyre extending the car park and building a stand out over Johnstons Creek. I dont approve. You used to be able to walk alongside the creek. It wasnt the flashest walk in the world, but at least it was public space. I wandered into the football ground and sat in the stands for a think.
A lot of birds sat there with me as if waiting for the wetlands to arrive. I was unsettled by some of the changes going on around herethe flight path, the Paceway, the development in Ross Street where a hectare or so of warehouses had come down, the Glebe Island Bridge for gods sake. Id attended a meeting protesting the plan to build a marina on Blackwattle Bay and that was about as environmentally active as Id been. I wondered, not for the first time, if I shouldnt think about moving. I didnt need a three-bedroom house with planes flying overhead, but I couldnt think of anywhere else Id like to be except Bondi, and they were sure to start changing that soon.
I threaded my way through the streets and lanes that lead back to Bridge Road and the familiar sights and smells drove thoughts of moving out of my head. And no planes went over. I went home, showered and shaved and rang Frank Parker, who I knew would be at his desk at ten past nine. Frank and I go back a long way. He married Hilde Stoner who was a tenant in this selfsame house once, and they called their son after me. Franks been pretty much put out to graze in administration, but every now and then he gets his hands dirty. We exchanged the usual male bullshit and I asked him what he knew about Barry White.
A pity, that, he said.
How so?
He was the right sort of bloke for the job, or seemed to be. But the bastards at the Loo corrupted him. Youd have had to be a saint to resist some of the stuff that was on offer around there back then. Can I ask why youre interested?
Id have to give Frank some of the story to get what I wanted, but I wanted to intrigue him first. Frank Parker was a man with great curiosity. A job. Hes got some information that could lead somewhere.
Oh, very helpful. Just ask me anything, Ill tell you everything I know.
Hang on a bit, Frank. Was he ever inside?
Let me think. Yeah, he did a very short stretch for conspiracy. I forget the details.
Leo Grogan?
Jesus, youre dipping deep in the bucket now. What is this, Cliffa rollcall of crooked cops?
Was Grogan crooked?
You bloodhound, you. Not especially, as I remember. I worked with him for a while, if you could call what he did working. The man was drunk from morning to night. Just could not stand to have a dry throat. Come on, Cliff. I cant see the connection.
The connection is Ramona Beckett and a reward for information leading to blah, blah. Can you find out who was on the investigating team?
Sure.
Id like to talk to him.
Its twenty years ago. He could be dead or in Noosa.
Seventeen years. Ill go to Noosa if I have to. If number ones dead Ill settle for number two or three. Its important, Frank.
Look, Cliff, weve taken on a sort of consultant to look into old unsolved cases when anything comes up. Names Max Savage, good bloke.
Oh, yeah.
If I help you with this, can you bring him in?
Id have to think about that.
He wouldnt want a bite of your reward. Hes OK for money.
I dont know
Sorry, Cliff. Thems the terms. Ill get you all the dope I can, if youll play. But Max can get you more, much more. Added to that, I think youd like him.
I said nothing, intending the silence to be discouraging.
Tell you what. See how you go for a day or two. Ill brief Max and hell scratch around. If you decide to call him in Ill set up a meeting and Ill advise him from my high position in the force to give you every possible assistance.
Youre a manipulative bastard.
He laughed. You just got out manipulated for once, thats all.
The Cleveland is a boxing pub. The walls carry photos of old-time fighters and some not so old. Les Darcy and Jimmy Carruthers hold pride of place above the bar; Griffos up there with Dave Sands and Vic Patrick and Tommy Burns and Jack Carroll. A couple of non-Australians get a grudging spotArchie Moore, Freddie Dawson, Emile Griffith. The shrinking band of former fighters gathers there for reunions from time to time and they drink there regularlynot at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday though. There are two pool tables and couple of pinball machines but the pugs have been known to take steps if the players get too noisy when theyre doing serious things like discussing whether Jack Carroll couldve taken Benny Leonard or how Fenech wouldve gone against Famechon.
Its not what youd call a dressy establishment. I wore drill trousers, a dark blue shirt and a cream linen jacket that has seen much better days. Id eaten a ham sandwich and a couple of cold boiled potatoes before leaving home as blotter for the beer Id be drinking. Its a trade thats hard on the liver. I spotted Barry White in a miasma of tobacco smoke at the end of the L-shaped bar. Just above where he sat, Ron Richards, who could beat anybody on his night, was glowering behind his gloves. White raised his hand to me and then signalled the barman. Fuck me, I thought, hes going to buy me a drink. Then I remembered that it was my money. The middy was on the bar, sitting on a much-used coaster, when I got there.
Light? That right? White said. He was on a stool with two others drawn up near it.
I sat. Thats right. Thanks. Cheers.
Yeah. Whyd you drink that piss?
I took a long pull at the beer. Have you tasted it lately? Its improved.
He sighed. I suppose Ill be on it, or worse, if I get on this health kick.
Dont worry, Barry. Theres a way to go before you reach that point.
True. Leos late.
First hurdle.
He drained his glass and pointed to it for the barmans benefit. Dont say that and dont worryfirst drink of the day. He stirred the pile of change and the couple of five dollar notes on the bar in front of him. See, I didnt drink the lot.
He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday but his shirt looked fairly fresh and he didnt smell as bad, although it was hard to tell with all the tobacco fallout. Whoever the woman was whod lent him the money, she wasnt handy with a needle. His jacket still lacked the button that would enable it to be fastened smartly. The pub was fairly quiet with just a few locals judiciously wetting their whistles. Tuesday was two days short of pension day and the beer money had to be spun out. The Cleveland didnt go in for counter lunches or happy hours or any of the other attractions. It was a place for drinking and talking.
So, White said. You put out any feelers yet?
A few.
Frank Parker?
Lets just talk to Leo first.
But he couldnt let it go. He sighed again as he fished out his Drum. Hes a good cop, Parker.
I was irritated and finished the middy quicker than Id intended. He thinks the world of you, too.
Youre a bastard, Hardy.
You said that before. Hello, this must be him or his twin brother.
The man coming towards us could only have been a former cop. He had the walk, a sort of swagger that changes over the years as the belly gets bigger but still says, I can do things to you that you cant do to me. He wasnt big, under six feet, but he was wide and thick through, especially around the middle. He wore a grey suit that had fitted him when he carried a few less kilos and a tie with some kind of emblem on it. Even in the gloom of the Cleveland, I could see that his nose was a mass of purple veins and a similar tracery spread across his cheeks.
Yeah, thats Leo. White signalled and a schooner of old appeared on the bar as Grogan reached us. He took it up and drank a third of it before dropping heavily onto a stool and shaking Whites hand.
Gday, Barry. Ta for the drink. He pointed to Whites diminished money pile. Youre flush.
Temporarily in funds, Leo. Dyou know Cliff Hardy?
Grogan polished off another six or seven ounces. Heard of him. Gday, Hardy.
Leo. I held up three fingers to the barman and took a closer look at Grogans tie. The emblem was crossed boxing gloves. He saw me looking.
State amateur light-heavy champ in 1966. You look as if youve gone a few rounds in your time.
Welter, I said, Police Boys Club stuff. Lost in the state semis to Clem Carter.
The beers arrived, I paid and Grogan finished number one and took a surprisingly small sip of number two. The grog might have ruined his career and looks but perhaps he was still capable of shrewdness. I remember Carter. Good fighter but a dumb fucker.
Clem had been a close mate of mine for a number of years. Grogans assessment was harsh. Clem had escaped from gaol, taken me along for the ride at gunpoint to get even with the man whod framed him and stolen his wife and ended up dead. He was unlucky, I said. Like Barry here.
Grogan snorted his amusement and took a solid pull on the schooner. Over to you, Barry. What the fuckre we all doing here, apart from remembering when we could throw a punch or two?
White had fiddled with the cigarette hed rolled while Grogan and I had sparred. Now he lit it, drank some beer and pulled his stool in closer so that we were in a fairly tight ring. The paranoid thought suddenly occurred to me that this whole thing could be a set-up directed at me. I held a good store of secrets of one kind or another, and I knew there were people who could benefit from knowing things I knew. I studied the torsos of the two men closely, but they were both too flabby for me to tell whether there was any electrical equipment under their shirts. I resolved to say as little as possible until I could get a true sense of the meeting.
A while back, White said, you happened to tell me that you knew a thing or two about the Ramona Beckett case.
Grogan sipped his beer and looked annoyed, but that might have been because he spilled some down his shirt. Oh, yeah. Did I?
You were… talkative. It rang a bell with me and I did a bit of checking. There was a reward out. There still is a reward.
Bullshit. Her fathers dead.
It was in his fucking will, Leo. A quarter of a million bucks.
Grogan looked at me. I shrugged and had to hope that concealed any surprise on my face. Barry White was the original corkscrew man. Here he was putting a twist on things right at the start. It made me wonder how many twists hed introduced in his spiel to me.
What do you reckon, Hardy? Grogan said.
Its one of the things Im going to look into, I said.
White puffed smoke away from our faces. Youre our starting point, Leo. We cant make a move without your information. Thats why youre in for twenty-five per cent.
Grogan laughed. Jesus, I dont believe this. Well, at least Ive got a drink out of it from youse. And I reckon Ill have another. He drained the schooner and held it up without looking at the barman. For all his dismissiveness, he was watching Barry White closely. I was having trouble reading the signs in their behaviour towards one another. Animosity certainly, but also something else.
White didnt change expression. I didnt expect you to understand right off the bat. I know youve got no time for me, but this is serious. Ive paid Hardy a five hundred dollar retainer and hes on two hundred a day and expensesthats how serious it is.
Grogan raised an eyebrow at me and I nodded. I didnt think you had a pot to piss in, Barry, he said harshly. Didnt your missus take you for every fucking cent?
She did, the bitch. But Ive got a backer. White nodded as the barman looked inquiringly at the money pile. More drinks appeared and the pile shrunk to almost nothing. Thats why I say your end is twenty-five per cent.
Grogan started on his next drink. I wouldnt back you if you were the only horse in the race. When the pressure came on, you were ready to put every other bastard in to save your skin. Probably did just that.
White shook his head. Ancient history, Leo. Ive had my troubles just like you. Hardy did a short stretch for frigging around with evidence. Were none of us cleanskins, but this is a chance to get our hands on some real money. He smiled and the old, booze-eroded charm was in his face. And to bring a criminal or criminals to justice.
Christ, youre a wanker, Grogan said.
Hardy doesnt think so. Hes got the contacts, Leo. Frank Parkers a mate of his; he knows journos and lawyers. He can front the family. He knew the woman.
Hes hardly said a fucking thing, Grogan said.
I bought you a drink.
Grogan laughed. So you did. So you did. Fuck it, Ill play along. But Ill tell you something, Barry boy. If this comes to anything and you dont play straight with me, Ill see you get hurt.
White butted his cigarette and reached for his fresh glass which he hadnt touched. Understood.
OK. Thiss what I know. Johnno Hawkins headed up the team that looked into the disappearance. I was in on it, but I was just a shit-kickerdriving, picking up the beer and pies and that. The case got a hell of a lot of publicity so Johnno was told to get busy and to come up with something quick. Well, he got busy all right, interviewed every bastard in sight and came up with sweet fuck-all.
Things died down, the case went on the back burner. One night I was out on the piss with this sheila I had then and Johnno and his wife, Peg. Did you ever meet her, Peggy Hawkins?
White shook his head and drank. He was looking decidedly unhappy.
Fucking good-looker, Grogan said. Sharp features, skinny, but with tits out to here. They reckon she could… never mind. Anyway, Johnno and Peg got into a fight, a real screaming match. This is back at their flat in Rose Bay. They were both pissed and Id gone off with my tart for a root in one of the bedrooms. I reckon theyd forgotten about us. I heard Peg say to Johnno something like, You wouldnt be able to afford her if you hadnt got all that money for keeping quiet about that ransom note. Johnno told her to shut up and he hit her. He resigned from the force soon after that and went up to the Gold Coast.
White looked increasingly unhappy as Grogans story unfolded. When it was finished he loosened his tie and slid the knot down. Johnno Hawkins is dead, White said. Had a heart attack out fishing a year or so ago.
Grogan took up his glass and raised it like a toast. Thats right. But Peggys still alive and fucking, last I heard.
Where? I said. Still on the Gold Coast?
Yeah. Shell either be doing it for money or getting the money off the girls whore doing it for her.
White smiled again and looked first at Grogan, then at me. Were away, he said, as if he knew everything would come right in the end.